The Secret Life of Lobsters Read Online Free Page A

schedule.
    â€œUnfortunately, I won’t have time today,” Bob said. “But I’m going to try to hit them next week, on our way back from Canada.”
    â€œThat’s too bad,” Jack said.
    â€œYeah,” Bob said. “Anyway, good luck with the rest of your day.”
    The radio went quiet. Bruce shook the soap from his brush and scanned the water for the Connecticut . He could make out the white wedge of her bow steaming in from the west. He altered his course twenty degrees so the Double Trouble ’s path would intersect the Connecticut ’s.
    A few minutes later Bruce throttled down as his lobster boat pulled up to the research ship. Bob Steneck and Carl Wilson talked with Bruce across the trough of seawater splashing between the two craft.
    â€œDid you clean up today, Bruce?” Carl shouted, smiling.
    Bruce groaned.
    â€œHardly caught a thing,” he said. “Thought I’d stop by and complain.”
    The men laughed. Then Bruce grew serious.
    â€œSo far this is the worst season I can remember.”
    Bob nodded. “I’ve been talking to fishermen all along the coast,” he said, “and it’s the same story everywhere. No one’s catching any lobsters.”
    â€œIt’s downright grim,” Bruce said. “How’s it look on the bottom?”
    â€œWe did see some lobsters today,” Bob answered.
    â€œI sure as hell would like to know what’s going on down there,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “When you figure it all out,” he added, only half joking, “let me know.”
    Bruce backed his boat away from the research ship, leaving a frothy wake. He threw the scientists a salute, then punched the throttle and set a course for home.
    A few minutes later the radio aboard the Double Trouble crackled once more.
    â€œ Bottom Dollar, you still on there, Jack?” It was Bob again.
    â€œGo ahead,” came Jack’s voice over the speaker.
    â€œI don’t know if it makes any difference to you where you’re fishing, but I just told Bruce that over here we saw some lobsters on the bottom.”
    â€œIs that right,” Jack responded. “Throw a few in my traps, will you?”
    â€œYeah, right.” Bob laughed.
    The voice of another local lobsterman interrupted the conversation. “You saw lobsters?” he said. “Where the hell are you? Stay right there, I’m on my way.”

1
A Haul of Heritage
    T he oceans of the earth abound with lobsters. Lobsters with claws like hair combs sift mud in offshore trenches. Clawless lobsters with antennae like spikes migrate in clans in the Caribbean and the South Pacific. Flattened lobsters with heads like shovels scurry and burrow in the Mediterranean and the Galapagos. The eccentric diversity of the world’s lobsters has earned them some of the most whimsical names in the animal kingdom. There is a hunchback locust lobster and a regal slipper lobster. There are marbled mitten lobsters, velvet fan lobsters, and even a musical furry lobster. The unicorn and buffalo blunt-horn lobsters inspire admiration; the African spear lobster, the Arabian whip lobster, and the rough Spanish lobster demand respect.
    Nowhere in the world, however, is the seafloor as densely populated with lobsters as in the Gulf of Maine. Though a less sophisticated creature than some of its clawless counterparts, the American lobster, scientific name Homarus americanus, is astonishingly abundant.
    But at five o’clock on a September morning in 1973, the young Bruce Fernald didn’t know that, and he wasn’t interested.
    â€œHey, Bruce.” The door opened. “Come on, son, get up. We’re going fishing.”
    Bruce groaned, rolled over, and cracked open an eye. Still dark. Jesus. Almost four years in the navy, riding nights away in the bunk of a destroyer, rounding the Cape of Good Hope inforty-foot seas, and what happens the first time he tries to